


Crash and Burn

by KoshiSekisen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel Has Stolen Grace, Dean is only mentioned, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, POV Sam Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Season/Series 10, Sick Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 19:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14600016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoshiSekisen/pseuds/KoshiSekisen
Summary: “Sam.”“Cas, man,” he said, an apology on his lips. But he didn’t say it, he didn’t have to. “I thought you were…”“I know,” Cas replied, his gravelly voice sharper than he remembered. They hadn’t talked since Sam told him about Dean’s note —Sammy let me go.





	Crash and Burn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aini_NuFire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/gifts).



> Alternate beginning for Season 10. To be honest, I don’t remember if Sam knows about Cas’s stolen grace, so I’m just going to pretend he doesn’t… 
> 
> Also, this one-shot is a gift to Aini_NuFire, whose fics always inspire me :)

Ever since they’d been children, Sam Winchester had longed for silence. His childhood was filled with the rumble of the Impala, his father’s shouts, Dean’s voice, the sketchy noises outside their dingy motel rooms. When he’d made it to Stanford, he spent hours basking in the peace of the library, in the quietness of his dorm, the nights with Jess sleeping in his arms. Back into the life, he stole minutes where he could find them — stalking their prey, hiding from monsters, in the emptiness of death. 

Now, he loathed it. 

The utter lack of sound screeched louder than the Impala’s tires when Dean was in a mood. Sam had gotten so used to Dean’s presence, his disappearance hurt more than the wound on his shoulder. The lack of his laughter, his footsteps, his snoring — he’d taken them as a curse and now he’d give his soul to get him back. 

With a grunt, he turned on the TV. The news lady (whom Dean had a crush on) prattled on about the midterm elections, her voice drowned by his brother’s favorite cassette playing in the bedroom, and whatever series Netflix showed in the War Room’s laptop. Everything was loud enough to give him a headache, and yet the Bunker still lacked whom he longed to hear the most. 

In fact, the sounds were so deafening he almost missed his phone ringing. 

_ Dean! _

He jumped to his feet and crossed the library, snatching his smartphone on the kitchen island with a swing that sent a twitch to his injury. Without checking the caller (because who else could it be?) he picked up.

“Dean!” he yelled, his stomach twisting in a mix of dread and hope. “Dean, where—”

A dry cough interrupted his tirade and he blinked in surprise. A glance at his screen revealed he wasn’t talking to his brother, but Castiel. 

“Sam.”

“Cas, man,” he said, an apology on his lips. But he didn’t say it, he didn’t have to. “I thought you were…”

“I know,” Cas replied, his gravelly voice sharper than he remembered. They hadn’t talked since Sam told him about Dean’s note —  _ Sammy let me go. _ “I wish I coul—” Whatever it was he wished for was cut off by another sharp coughing fit. 

Sam sat on the chair, combing his hair out of his eyes in concern. Cas said he had grace, that he was powered up, that he could fight… But if he was down to the count, he wouldn’t be any help in rescuing Dean. 

_ No. _ He recognized that pattern now, he’d berated Dean for how blind he became when Sam was in trouble and he was now doing the same to their friend. Cas deserved better than the Winchesters any given day, but Sam’s stomach dropped at the realization he’d almost discarded him to feed on his unhealthily codependent relationship with his brother.  _ And yet… _

“Cas, where are you?” he asked when the fit stopped. 

“In a motel—I used the credit card Dean gave me,” Cas explained, his voice slightly breezy. “I’m on my way to a town called Edenwood.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Why? Do you have a lead?”

“Not Dean.” A beat. “But I suspect an angel is hiding there, and they might help us.”

Castiel had been Heaven’s most-wanted for years, and now he had a whole troop at his orders, other angels calling him “Commander,” even. Sam sighed, reigning in the pulse of hope. 

“Shouldn’t you ask Hannah? You sound like you need a break…”

“No, Sam, we must find Dean, we—” More coughing. Sam bit his lip. When it didn’t stop after a few moments, he sat up and walked toward his room. 

“What motel are you in? I’m gonna go see you.”

“No, just meet me in Edenwood.”

Sam didn’t have it in him to tell Cas he couldn’t drive, that he doubted Dean would go to a town with an angel in it, that Dean didn’t want to be found. 

“Yeah… Okay.”

 

* * *

 

Going solo did have some perks — flights. Sam slept on the plane, the loud engine drowning the memories that threatened to crawl in the back of his mind. The food was mediocre, the attendants as rude as he remembered them from his time as a student, and he had to fold his legs uncomfortably due to the lack of space. Dean wouldn’t have let him live it down. 

He’d kill to have him back. 

His knees cracked in protest when he walked out the soreness, his injury throbbing from the loud man he’d had to share that tiny space with (though, considering how much bigger he was, he supposed he had caused that rude salesman some discomfort as well). With his shoulder bag in place and his weapons back in his possession — and the firearms paperwork had been a pain — he asked for the bus tickets and headed toward the counter while powering up his phone. 

Just before he reached the stand, he saw that Castiel had called him thirteen times in the last hour and a half. His pulse spiked in alarm as he put down his bags and rang back. 

“Dammit,” he cursed, earning himself a glare from a nearby mother holding a toddler. Any other day he would’ve apologized, but Cas never called that often, especially not when Sam had expressly told him he wouldn’t be able to answer the phone while flying. “Cas!” 

He’d picked up on the other line, but his relief was cut short — there was a pathetic attempt at a cough, like a mix between a wheeze and a mewl, but no other sound. Sam called out his name several times, each time louder and attracting the curious glances of passersby, but gave up. Whatever was going on on the other side wasn’t going to respond, and he was losing precious seconds standing there like an idiot. 

Without a second thought, he dragged his bags to a bench in a far corner and wretched his laptop free. He glanced around him — it wouldn’t do to be caught hacking in the middle of a crowded airport, but he didn’t have the luxury of time. 

It took him longer than expected. He had a potent VPN set up and knew how to crack a code using dodgy wifis, but even then he was down one hand and had to watch over his shoulder. However, twenty-three minutes later he caught Cas’s signal and tracked it to a motel over 60 miles away from Edenwood. For a moment, he wondered if anyone had stolen the phone or if he’d forgotten it; but he was positive that had been Cas on the other side. 

Which meant Cas hadn’t moved  _ at all _ .

Castiel, who’d carved a banishing sigil on his chest as a decoy, who’d jumped into the Cage to take Sam out, who’d stopped a second apocalypse on his own — hadn’t moved. 

“Dammit, Cas,” he growled. He snapped his laptop shut, threw it into the bag, and ran out of the terminal. He wondered if he should steal a car, but then noticed a bored-looking middle-aged man glaring at Uber-drivers. “ _ Taxi _ !”

 

 

* * *

 

The taxi driver had seemed friendly enough, what with finally having a customer willing to pay a pricey fee to go places, but Sam kept his answers short until he’d eventually given up and again, silence reigned. He thought of Dean’s cassettes sitting on the Impala, of his brother’s obnoxious voice as he sang along, and then remembered the noise out of Cas’s phone and had to fight to keep the anxiety down. 

He’d already lost  _ one _ brother. 

It took over an hour and a half to get to the motel, and Sam threw the cash at the man without even counting it — it was an expensive fare, but certainly not worth the wad of bills he’d handed. He took the bags from the trunk and thanked the man, turning his back to the cab, and faced the most depressing motel he’d seen in ages. 

The building stood on rickety walls, its paint peeling and several gross graffitis lining up in the form of curse words and crude drawings. Part of the roof seemed on the verge of caving in, and the stairs creaked without even people walking on them. A couple of prostitutes, a man and a woman, both dressed in cheap rags, hung around in the corner definitely not smoking cigarettes. The closer he got, the more powerful the stench became, the unmistakable smell of decay, sweat, and grime. 

It was hard to imagine Castiel in this dump, but he pressed on. He pushed the door of the reception open, the wood soft under his hands and it was only discipline and his long history of touching questionable substances that kept him from grimacing. A young woman sat behind a desk, leafing through a Cosmopolitan, her piercings gleaming in the light of a rusty lamp. She was as thin as a rake, her pretty features dulled by boredom. 

“You takin’ the boy or the gal?” she asked, her voice sultry. She looked at him as though she knew his secret. 

He frowned in confusion. “What?”

“Oh, c’mon.” Her laugh was high-pitched, and it grated on his nerves. “Dunno why a pretty boy like you needs to pay for a shag, but—”

“No, nothing like that,” he interrupted her, mortification warming his cheeks. He tried to think what Dean would say in this situation. “Like you say, I don’t need to pay to get laid — but a friend’s staying here and I need you to tell me their room number.” He slipped her two twenties. 

He should’ve known better than to expect she’d give him trouble about privacy. She eyed the bills. “You talkin’ ‘bout the tramp lady or the drug addict in a trench coat?”

Sam clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to react. “The addict.”

“Room 105.”

Bags on his shoulders, he dashed to the hallway and didn’t bother knocking when he found the door. He slung it open, “Cas?”

By a small miracle, the room wasn’t as bad the rest of the motel. It had a dubious carpeted floor and the wallpaper was torn at places, but with the windows open and the curtain drawn it had obviously been lovely back in its prime. There was an old TV in the corner, and the kitchen counter was gleamed — maybe because of grease instead of cleanliness, but Sam didn’t get to inspect much when he spotted the figure on the single bed in the corner. 

“Shit,” he breathed. He put his bags down slowly, quietly, and approached the unconscious angel. 

_ One ex-blood junkie, one dropout with six bucks to his name, and Mr. Comatose over there. _

Except Dean wasn’t there, he was dry and without the comfort of drugs, and Mr. Comatose was closer to Mr. Dead Body.

Cas was whiter than the sheets below him, his lips bloodless, dark and heavy bags under his eyes. Angels didn’t age in their vessels, but suddenly Jimmy seemed old, gray — mortal. Alarmed, Sam put his hand on Cas’s chest. He was breathing, just barely, probably the minimum, but he was burning hot through all his layers. 

_ No.  _ What would Dean say? “Hang in there.” And he sprung into action. 

 

* * *

 

Five hours later, Cas still hadn’t regained consciousness. Sam had done everything he could think of — he’d stripped him off his coat, his jacket and shirt, leaving him in slacks. Shoes and socks were discarded, too. He’d aired the room, warm, fresh air was preferable to the bacteria and fungi in the AC’s filters. A trip to a nearby store got him a plastic basin, mineral water, and ice. There was a pharmacy a town over, but he’d already loathed to abandon Cas the fifteen minutes it had taken him to the so-called supermarket… Plus, he wasn’t even sure medicine would work on an angel, weak as he was. 

He’d arrived at the motel early afternoon, and the sun was setting and taking with it the heat of late August. Sam sat slumped on a wooden chair, covering his face with his hand, good elbow on his knees. His other arm lay uselessly on a sling he’d swung on after the throbbing didn’t abate despite the painkillers. He wanted to sleep, but he didn’t dare look away from Cas — not when he’d been uncared for this long. 

They’d been through a lot (too much) these last years: it was hard to track down when and how it all began. With his mother’s demon deal? With her death, John’s obsessive hunt for Yellow Eyes, the Colt, the Seals, the Devil, the Apocalypse? How had they ended up there, with Dean gone, Cas hurt, and he himself a mess? If he were Dean, he’d push past it, fight until his knuckles bled, do first and reflect later. Sam, however, liked to think of himself as the cool-headed one who’d learned from his past mistakes.

How was it not hypocritical of him to want Dean back, to want Cas well, to the point of willing to sacrifice  _ everything _ ? To the point of killing and torturing for information?  

Yeah, Sam was a hypocrite, but he was willing to accept that label if it got him his family back. 

His thoughts got cut short at a small moan, Sam scrambled forward, eyes fixed on Cas’s face. The paleness had faded and now there was a high red on his cheeks, and when he opened his eyes they were glassy and red-rimmed.  _ But at least they’re open. _ “Cas!” 

“...S’m.” A weak fit cut him off, but at least he’d been recognized. Sam didn’t know what fevers did to angels, but any human would be delirious at that temperature. 

“Yes, yes, it’s me,” he said quickly, leaning in with his good shoulder and helping him sit up. He fluffed the pillow as well as he could and gently laid him back, propped up. He handed him a water glass, which Cas drank slowly. It seemed to go on the wrong pipe because the coughs gained strength and viciousness, but brought along with it wakefulness. 

“Sam, wh-what are you doing here?” he managed. “Edenwood—”

“—will need to wait, because you need to rest.” Sam sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”

“It’s not—it’s not a sickness. Not exactly.”

“Well, it’s surely acting like one,” Sam huffed, irritation suddenly clawing its way up his throat. He couldn’t deal with more martyrdom and sacrifices in the name of the greater good. They were past it. They had to be. “Cas, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me how.”

Cas squinted, his breath hitching every time he inhaled. “You can’t help me…”

“Yes, I can!” Sam insisted. “I might not be able to fix… this, whatever is it. But I can help you. I couldn’t stop Dean from leaving, but I _am_ stopping you from killing yourself!”

Cas stared at him but ended up nodding, wincing in pain. “I just thought the angel at Edenwood might be able to help us.”

Sam nodded. “I’m not blaming you Cas, but… This? Our priority has to be finding Dean and—” he raised his finger to interrupt Cas “—to do that we need to be at our best.”

Cas glowered, staring pointedly at his shoulder. 

“I—Cas, I was thinking a lot when I found you here…” Sam sighed, leaning back in the chair and breathing so hard he could’ve put out candles. “You looked dead, and don’t get me wrong, I want Dean back,” he ignored how his voice shook with exhaustion. When was the last time he’d slept a full night? “Hell, apparently I’m not above torturing demons and monsters for leads, but I’m not willing to sacrifice the only ally we have left.”

Cas looked away. 

“Dean wouldn’t—won’t forgive me when he comes back, and I won’t forgive myself if I let even the people we love crash and burn.”

“Dean would do the same for you,” Cas whispered, closing his eyes. He’d only been awake for a few minutes, but he looked exhausted. 

“I know, and do you know how many people we’ve lost along the way with that attitude? Bobby, Jo, Ellen, Kevin?” It hurt to think about them. “I’m getting Dean back, I swear to God, but I’m not letting  _ anyone else _ rot in the process.”

He didn’t realize how much he’d shouted until there was banging on the wall. 

Cas stared at him, his eyes bloodshot and weary with illness, but he nodded. “You’re a good man, Sam Winchester.” 

Sam wanted to say something back but the words caught in his throat. Dean would call it a chick-flick moment.  _ I’ll  _ make _ him call it a chick-flick moment when we get him back.  _

“Rest,” he said instead, taking away the glass of water with the excuse of filling it in. When he turned back to Cas, the angel was already asleep or passed out.

 

* * *

 

Sam startled awake when a loan groan pierced the silence. Except it wasn’t silent, not really, not with the cringing mattress springs of their neighbors going at it, or with the loud conversations of drunkards having a night on the streets. He rubbed the crick on his neck and turned to Cas, who was tossing and turning in the beds and speaking in… Enochian? Pulse spiking in alarm, he placed the back of his hand on Cas’s cheek and cursed. 

He was burning up. 

Fumbling, he took the handkerchief he’d been using as a rag that afternoon and dipped it in the cold water. The ice had melted with the heat of late summer, but it was still blissfully cool and it might help bring down Cas’s fever. 

He’d said it wasn’t a sickness, that Sam couldn’t cure it, but dammit Sam needed a win and he would get one. 

Once he’d squeezed the excess water from the piece of cloth, he folded it on Cas’s forehead. “Cas? Cas, wake up.” He needed to know if he was coherent. The angel opened his eyes and moaned something in a pitiful voice, but didn’t seem to recognize him.  _ Well, damn.  _ He took the remaining ice bags from the dubiously functioning freezer and held them against Cas’s armpits. He couldn’t heal an angel, but he could help a human vessel. 

If he hadn’t screwed up his shoulder, he could’ve dipped him into an ice bath. 

He waited, muttering words of comfort he regretting not telling Dean when he’d had the chance, praying to a God long forgotten.  _ If Dean were here he’d know how to fix this. _ Except he wouldn’t, and Sam knew that, but a part of him refused to let go of the idea that as long as Dean was there everything would be alright. 

“Don’t do this to me, Cas.” 

Talking seemed to work —  the mumblings had stopped and he was breathing easier, not coughing as much. Even after he finally dozed into a restful sleep, Sam kept refreshing the rag on his forehead and the ice packs. It kept him busy, made him feel as though he wasn’t wasting time chasing after his brother’s shadow. 

_ Dean doesn’t want to be found.  _

Except Sam didn’t believe that, he really didn’t. Dean had never given up on him, despite the demon blood, despite the Trials, despite Hell and Purgatory. 

“Sam.” He started, sagging in relief when he saw that Cas was awake (and aware, and not as hot as an hour ago). “What’s the—what’s the saying? Penny for your…”

“Penny for your thoughts,” Sam said with a smile. “I was thinking about…” He didn’t continue speaking, and the sad look Cas gave him let him know he didn’t have to. “I let him go, once. When you were stuck in Purgatory. I didn’t look for him.” Cas nodded. “We’d agreed on it, you know? To stop this dysfunctional codependent cycle of sacrificing ourselves… And when he got back he was  _ furious _ .” 

He’d never been able to put it behind, to be honest. Not when Dean had gone to Lisa and Ben to start a family, not when Dean himself had quit the lifestyle. And yet, Dean hadn’t forgiven him. The Winchesters were hypocrites at their best. 

“So you can’t let him go now,” Cas summarized. He was blinking slowly, as though fighting sleep. 

“I’m afraid he won’t forgive me,” he admitted. “You never got mad at us for not looking for you.” The confession slipped from his tongue before he could stop it. His face burned with shame. 

Cas smiled. “I never intended to leave. I don’t think Dean forgave me for that, either.”

It was easy to criticize Dean like this, when he’d left, because it eased the absolute despair that threatened to swallow Sam whole. It gnawed at his conscience, but as long as he could focus on Cas, he could put the anxiety aside. 

“Cas…” He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “What happened?”

Perhaps he didn’t want to answer, because Cas remained silent. 

“Last I knew, you were human but you somehow got your powers back,” he insisted. “That’s what you told us.”  _ Except… _ “But you didn’t tell us  _ how _ you did it, did you?” 

“It’s…” Cas paused, taking a deep breath and letting out a halting cough. “I stole it—” Before Sam could ask what he meant, he continued. “—I had to. I needed to stop Metatron I-I had to warn Dean about Gadreel and…” 

“Shh.” Sam put his hand on Cas’s chest, rubbing it in order to help him breathe. “What… Cas, what do you mean to stole it?”

“I took another angel’s grace.” Sam raised his eyebrows. “Yeah I… I wasn’t sure that could be done either, but it gave me some powers back.”

“At a price.”

Cas nodded, unable to speak due to another coughing fit. Sam grimaced. His own experience with foreign grace was dubious at best, but among angels, it seemed like a whole different deal. 

“This will kill me.”

The words sent a chill down Sam’s spine.  _ No. _ For a moment, the background noises vanished into a rush of blood in his veins — he couldn’t lose Cas. Not when he’d already lost Dean. Not when it was all their fault; when Sam had insisted on taking on the trials and died, forcing Dean to trick an angel into him, not when they’d been the ones to seek Metatron in the first place when they’d needed to close Hell, when they… Was their whole life a vicious circle of causes and coincidences that went from bad to worse to worst? 

“Cas, no.”

“It’s okay.” It wasn’t. “I’ve made my peace.”

“I haven’t!” He hadn’t been able to reign in the shout. “ _ I haven’t _ . And Dean hasn’t either. And we’re messed up, and we messed  _ you _ up, but I’m not letting you die.”

He hated the sympathetic look Cas gave him. 

“I don’t regret either of you.”

“You should.”

Cas huffed, which triggered another small fit that had Sam holding his shoulder as he tried to sit up. “You showed me what God intended when he ordered us to love you first and foremost. You, Sam, and your brother, are worth everything.”

Sam stood up, hands twisted into tight fists. “I don’t think so. Cas, you called me  _ thirteen  _ times in the span of two hours, I don’t believe you want to die — not really, and I’ll go with my gut on this.”

Cas frowned in confusion. “Thir-thirteen times?”

Sam nodded, biting his lip. “You don’t remember.” Cas didn’t need to answer. He probably wasn’t even aware how much time had actually passed since his last phone call. “I don’t believe you, Cas. And I wouldn’t let Dean die in front of my eyes—” except he had, over a hundred times, and once too recently, “—and the same goes to you. It’s what he says, we’re family and family means no one stays behind.”

“You sound like your brother.”

“Sometimes he’s right, but don’t tell him I said that.”

Cas huffed in amusement but closed his eyes with a grimace. “I-I don’t  _ want _ to die, Sam, not while Dean’s still missing, not when you’re hurting…”

Sam opened his mouth, torn between encouraging him to hold onto something, and reprimanding him for only thinking about them. 

“But this… This grace, it’s a bastardization of our real power. It’s not meant to be.”

“You said Metatron took your grace to close Heaven, can’t we get it out of you?”

Cas shook his head. “That would kill me… and probably anyone standing within a mile radius. The only way I can—continue, is hoping it won’t kill me before I’ve found Dean.”

Did Cas really believe he was in any state to stand on his two feet, let along hunt down his brother? But Sam remembered Cas had held on to the Leviathans, taken his madness, hid the angel tablet in his own gut. Cas might think he was invincible, and that stubbornness had proven enough it could keep him alive, but Sam could actually  _ see _ him fading away in front of his eyes. 

“How—Cas, how can we heal you? What about your own grace? Maybe Metatron still has it.”

Cas opened his mouth to reply, but a stronger coughing fit rendered him speechless, wheezing for air and trembling. Alarmed, Sam put his hand on his forehead and winced at the fever — it was spiking again like a yo-yo. When it passed, Cas shook his head. 

Defeated, Sam sighed and covered him with the filthy blankets to get him to sleep.

 

* * *

 

The first rays of sunlight began dyeing the sky light blue, illuminating the sombre room and bringing with it a newfound pessimism that Sam hadn’t been able to help anyone. However, as the sun peeked in through the neighboring buildings, determination gripped him tighter than a vice. Maybe they’d lost more than they’d ever won, maybe they  _ were _ doomed, but if there was one thing the Winchesters were known for was their perseverance. 

Even if they never found Dean, Sam wouldn’t stop looking for him. 

And he would find a way to help Cas, maybe not by taking the grace or finding his own, but he would dig into the lore until he came up with something—with anything. 

Neither of them would ever, had ever, admitted defeat where Sam had been involved. 

Cas’s fever broke past eight, and though he remained bedridden and weakened, his determination to see things through kept Sam on his toes. Sam fed him ice chips as day turned to noon, keeping the conversations away from Cas’s imminent death and Dean’s disappearance. He talked about the cases he’d dealt, the hunters he’d been in touch with, the books he’d found. 

“Sam…” Cas said just after the receptionist — the girl who’d called Cas an addict — called them to remind them it was past their check-out time, which Sam had extended. “We should go to that town, Edenwood, maybe they  _ do _ know about about Dean.”

Sam bit his lip. “No. No, Cas. We’re going back to the bunker, and we’re finding a way to make you better.” He raised his voice to drown out Cas’s protest. “And then,  _ only  _ then, we’ll go.”

“But Dean’s—”

“—alive, and probably in trouble but not dying. And I told you yesterday Cas, I’m not sacrificing you or anyone else. Ever.”

If Sam ever needed convincing he was doing the right thing, it was Cas’s expression at that moment. How much had he given them, only to never get anything in return? Cas had honestly expected to run the moment he managed to stand, had believed Sam would let him. He’d called him back when he’d been delirious, so Sam knew—knew Cas needed help and this time he was going to  _ be _ there. He owed that much to the angel who’d literally dragged him out of Hell. 

“Family runs deeper than blood.” 


End file.
